


The Dollmaker

by BoredFox



Category: South Park
Genre: Anxiety, Dolls, Lots of anxiety, Multi, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Paranormal, Psychological Horror, Short Chapters, Some characters tagged are only mentioned or implied, empathic Stan, vivid depictions of emotions and scents, weird tags I know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 20:11:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16709227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoredFox/pseuds/BoredFox
Summary: Randy Marsh fancies himself a craftsman, but he keeps his biggest past time a secret: dollmaking. He makes them as reminders of people he's lost, carved out of wood and painted to their likeness. He's got a workshop full, and they're giving Stan nightmares.





	1. The Workshop

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! I wrote this a while back as vent writing and decided to pick it back up; I've already got a significant portion written, but I'm not sure of how many chapters it will be yet. It's kind of uncomfortable to read but it still resonates with me pretty hard.

Stan hated the workshop. He hated it with a passion, even had nightmares about the place, but he still felt drawn to it. It made him sick to think about it, so he tried not to.

The dolls there always seemed to be looking right at his soul, and each one seemed to have a different intention in doing so. Their expressions, permanent as they were, had so much detail that their perceived emotions were almost palpable. Some grinned, some laughed, some cried, and some looked downright pissed. And each one seemed eerily familiar.

Some of the dolls, he could've sworn were modelled after real people. He didn't want to ask. He mentioned that they looked familiar, once, to his mother, and her answers were indirect and flighty. She told him that maybe it's a coincidence. Sharon never entered the workshop for anything less than necessity anymore, so she couldn't really confirm or deny anything. That was what she implied, anyway.

Stan knew he'd seen them before, though. He'd seen those faces, with all their detail, in his dreams. He'd seen them as if they were alive, though, not just odd wooden dolls on display out of view of the world, but as real people with jobs and families and lives.

The dreams got progressively worse, though. They became nightmares, and then night terrors. Then he had to ask.

He asked about the nightmares. Randy told him they must be from what he had heard on TV, and that his mind used the dolls as actors of sorts. Stan wasn't convinced. They felt too real, too familiar.

He didn't like the answer that question got him, so he asked instead where he had seen their faces before.

"Sometimes," Randy had started; he paused as he opened the workshop door, then ushered Stan inside. "Sometimes I base them off people I was close to. People who aren't around anymore."

Randy closed the door behind them, and suddenly Stan felt trapped. The dolls were staring at him, welcoming him into their birdcage, and he instinctively wanted to hide from their gazes.

"Y'see, Stan, sometimes, when you miss someone, you want to have something that will help you hang onto their memory. Normally, people would keep photos, videos, or something that person gave them, but some artists choose to create something that reminds them of that person instead. That's... That's why I make these dolls, Stan. To remember the people I miss."

Stan may have only been a child at the time, but even at the age of five he knew enough about the world to understand the implications of his father's words. The people Randy referred to were dead. That's the only thing that fit. That's why people keep things like that, right? That's why his mom always wore that necklace her grandmother gave her.

Randy picked Stan up and sat him down on a workbench by the door. He felt the shoe of a doll brush the back of his neck and a shiver crawled down his spine. He focused on his father's eyes instead of those belonging to the grumpy old man doll just over his shoulder.

"Now listen, Stan, you mustn't tell anyone about this. It's... Weird."

Stan listened intently. Anything to keep from focusing on that grumpy old man. He looked so familiar, terrifyingly familiar, and that seemed to make him even creepier than most of the others.

"Normal people don't do this, but I do. I know your mother is disturbed by it, even though she's come to accept it; others wouldn't be so kind about it. It's what most would call morbid. You know what that word means?" Randy paused for Stan to answer, and Stan nodded. "Okay, good. That's why I can't tell anyone."

At five, Stan understood why his father made dolls that resembled dead people, he understood that it was creepy and weird, but he didn't quite grasp how morbid it must seem to others. Stan didn't know enough about the world to deny reality, didn't know enough not to accept things the way they are. He only knew enough to understand.


	2. Keep a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goddamnit, Kyle, can't you mind your own business? Oh... I'm sorry. That was harsh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this a while ago but I've been caught up in school work, finals are next week. ;'3 I'm gonna cry. Not gonna lie, I don't particularly like how I wrote Kyle in this. I mean, I was trying to imagine what they'd be like when they're about 5-6, and well. I can't imagine Kyle not being a little shit. This is about the last of them being /tiny/ tiny in this fic, time will be passing quickly and weird shit will happen. I've got 4 chapters written so far, and I think the first four are the main set-up chapters so... I remember what I was doing with this one 200% better than my other South Park fic, thankfully.
> 
> Imma be done with this so the notes aren't the longest part ;-;

He woke from his nightmare the same way he guessed he always did, hyperventilating and trying to grasp anything he could, except this time, Kyle was there to give him his opinion on what he looked like. "Like you'd been held underwater," he said.

"Yeah, sorry..."

His apology was weak and not entirely genuine, but he just barely had his breathing steadied enough to think without the fuzzy panic, and his first observation had been that he had grabbed Kyle's arm with all the strength his panic had allowed him.

Stan then became disoriented by his surroundings and became mildly dizzy. He looked around in an attempt to figure out where he was, but the adrenaline left over only allowed him to process the thought, _t_ _his isn't Kyle's room._

"Dude, you okay?"

Sleepovers are usually at Kyle's house. Stan doesn't have nightmares there. Stan has nightmares at Stan's house, so they must be at Stan's house, but they're in a tent?

"Yeah, I'm fine."

He feels tears attempt to form in his eyes. The adrenaline is no longer clouding him and he feels empty and kind of silly; he's now aware that they were camping in his backyard, but he can't shake the disorientation.

Kyle hums, clearly seeing through the generic answer. "You had a panic attack. Why?"

"I dunno;" Stan said it before he thought about it. He didn't wanna think about it.

"Okay," Kyle responded, or rather, reacted; his tone told Stan that he wasn't going to let it go. Stan was still trying to get his bearings, though, so he dismissed it.

"Stan, take a deep breath." Stan did as he asked, but turned his head to question Kyle as he did. Kyle smiled. "Hold it for a few seconds. Then let go."

*One, two, three, four, five,* Stan released his held breath, perhaps a little too quickly. He found himself leaning forward. Still gripping Kyle's arm. He tried to let go but started to fall. Kyle would just have to put up with it a bit longer.

"Okay, one more time." Kyle's voice was more soothing than demanding this time, and that threw Stan off a bit. He complied nonetheless. He smelled grass, sweat, and fabric. The scents flooded his nose, and he felt safe. Safer. The fainter scent of store-bought chocolate chip cookies distracted him enough to make him giggle. Kyle. Kyle smelled like chocolate chip cookies and sleep.

The redhead was still smiling, though clearly confused by Stan's sudden giggling. Stan pulled him into a hug; an awkward feat when trapped by a sleeping bag.

"You okay?"

"Better."

Stan pulled away and tugged at his sleeping bag out of habit.

"What happened?" Of course, he'd ask again. Stan sighed. Did he have the energy to talk about it? Maybe mentally, but not emotionally. No. No, he didn't wanna talk about the freak nightmare that he pointedly avoided discussing with anyone.

"Y'know, Stan, dreams are like, manifestations of subconscious worries, right?" What was Kyle on about with this? "Like once, I kept having nightmares about failing a test, but after the test, they went away." Oh.

_Oh, no,_  Stan thought. _This isn't gonna just go away._

He fought himself to keep from just blurting it out.

Did he want to tell Kyle or did he want to never tell anyone ever? At eight, Stan was beginning to grasp the concept of morbidity and was certainly learning the concept of shame. Kyle was a bit younger, and while the redhead didn't seem to care about morbidity or shame just yet he knew about the concepts and how they worked. Stan could tell that Kyle knew, but perhaps he didn't _understand._

"Stan?"

"It's nothing, Kyle. Don't worry about it."

Stan understood, but he didn't _know._  the concepts sunk in, and he understood, but he didn't have much of a conscious awareness of how they worked. He knew Kyle did, Kyle was smart, of course he'd know.

"Don't say that, saying that makes me worry more!"

What should he say? That he has nightmares about the creepy ass dolls that his father makes? That glass eyes and carved wood, and the smell of wood shavings and chemicals invade his mind almost every night? Suddenly it seems embarrassing to admit. He's afraid of dolls. It's not an uncommon phobia, but he still finds it silly. He's sure Kyle will too.

Suddenly he feels like he doesn't understand anymore. Why is he so unnerved? He's had the nightmares for as long as he could remember, but he didn't know why he had the nightmares. His mother dodged the subject and his father gave explanations that only blurred the answers further.

He doesn't say anything more and instead breathes in the scents of the tent, focusing on the scent of cookies. He heard Kyle huff and plop back down onto his sleeping bag. Kyle was mad.

*Let him be mad,* Stan thought. He wouldn't tell until he understood it himself.

"If you don't tell me, I might have nightmares, too."

That's what Stan needed to hear to know that Kyle understood shame. Technically, it was guilt that Kyle was trying to pull in, but Stan hadn't learned the difference between the words yet.

"Promise you won't laugh?"

"Of course not! I promise." Kyle sounded so genuine and so happy that Stan was opening up to him. Stan turned to look at him, just to double check. Kyle wouldn't hurt him, but he didn't want to run the risk of Kyle not understanding.

"It's the dolls."

Kyle scrunched up his face in confusion. "The dolls? Like, the ones your dad makes? What about them?"

Stan sighed; this would be tough to explain.

"They freak me out, dude. Sometimes it feels like they're alive. Like they're stuck feeling whatever it is dad's got carved onto their faces."

Stan felt uncomfortable watching Kyle's expression change, worry pulling the confusion apart.

"You mean like their expressions? Dude, it's just painted wood."

"But they look so real!"

Kyle's dismissive wording didn't sit well. _This was a mistake._

"Stan, have you ever touched them?"

The thought alone terrified Stan; he had, but only on accident. It unnerved him too much. He had tried before, too, but the closer he got, the more unnerved he became. There were emotions seeping from those dolls, he knew that's what he was feeling, and the pressure from those emotions made him feel like he was being crushed.

"No! That's too much!"

"Too much what?"

"Don't make me say it, dude, I'll sound like Tweek!"

Kyle suppressed a snicker at that.

""Shh, not like that man." Maybe that wasn't the best thing to say. Stan isn't actively paranoid about the dolls. It's passive paranoia. "It's just, dude, the emotions, they feel real, like if I touch them it might offend them. It's overwhelming."

"And that's 'too much pressure?'" Kyle was actually giggling now. Stan made a mental note to be nice to Tweek next time he saw him.

"Literally, like it feels like I'm being crushed by them," he half-whispered. "It's terrifying."

No more giggling; Kyle took it seriously. After a quiet minute of processing, Kyle began to think on it. Kyle always wanted to find a solution. Stan was sure there wasn't one, but Kyle wanted to find one. If he couldn't fix it, he'd at least try and make it better.

"Maybe it's a self-fulfilling prophecy;" Kyle pronounced the word "self-fulfilling" carefully, not for emphasis but to make sure he pronounced it correctly. Stan was briefly distracted by this, enough to forget what it meant.

"Huh?"

"You said the dolls look like they're actually feeling things, right? Maybe that makes you feel it too, like sympathy pains, but, y'know, not actually sympathy 'cause they're dolls. You're the only one feeling it."

What's so self-fulfilling about that? Stan just assumed he'd have to trust Kyle on that because he didn't have the comprehension of the topic to understand.

Something stuck out, though. Kyle said "look like." Stan had said "feels like." Stan dug deep in his memories for information, but he can't remember having seen the dolls before his earliest memories of the nightmares.

"I said it felt like."

"What?"

"I don't remember seeing them before I started having the nightmares;" saying it out loud felt like some horror movie confession. Maybe he had had the fear ingrained into him from such a young age that it had become instinct? Should he ask if that was possible? Would Kyle know?

Kyle looked deep in thought again.

"Maybe we should go see-"

"No! Uh, we're not allowed in the workshop. Dad locks it."

"Okay?" The pronunciation was a familiar confused questioning. "I was gonna suggest that we ask Kenny."

"What?"

Why ask Kenny? Stan was reluctant to tell Kyle; he didn't want to tell Kenny, too.

"Yeah, Kenny's pretty smart about this kinda stuff. Well, he seems to be."

About what kinda stuff? Stan wasn't so sure he wanted to know if Kyle's knowledge of thought had run out. He also didn't want to open up about it again. This was uncomfortable enough.

"I kinda don't wanna tell anyone, though." Did he look worried? Stan wondered if looking worried would be good or bad. Maybe it would make Kyle understand, but it might also make Kyle more determined. Kyle seemed to have understood, though, but his expression had fallen.

"I just... I don't think I'm ready to. So, can we keep this a secret?"

"Sure, we can keep it a secret."

Stan felt relieved, but Kyle still seemed worried. He was hurt. Stan didn't know why, but he was. Why was Kyle hurt? Probably because he was wanted to help. Now Stan felt guilty. That's what he was trying to avoid.

"Thank you," he whispered.

They both curled back up into their sleeping bags. Stan knew he probably wouldn't be able to sleep again. The scent of chocolate chip cookies now made him feel nauseous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of it's really weird, but a lot of the weird is based on the feelings I have due to anxiety; I dunno if I portrayed it well, but I tried. I dunno if hypersensitivity is the right word but?? Idk, I don't do the smell thing, I try to ground myself with audio. Bird sounds ;^) Also I've never written small children before this... Idk if I did any good


	3. Just an author's note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An author's note

I meant to have been working on this more, but I failed to do so. Perhaps I'll revive it later on down the line, but I make no promises. I'm sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> It's weird. Really weird. Also, dolls are terrifying but I deeply respect anyone with the skills to make them.
> 
> I'll eventually be picking my other works back up, the other one I've been posting here I'm probably going to completely overhaul (I'm so sorry), but it may be a while.


End file.
